


If You Give A Child A Witcher

by TheVoidLooksBack



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Geralt gets befriended by a child and doesnt know how to cope?, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Humor, basically big buff statue ends up lulling a child to sleep to everyones confusion, inspired by a prompt i seen a while ago, its just lots of fluff, then he gets adopted and its more COnfusion?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:54:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25124254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVoidLooksBack/pseuds/TheVoidLooksBack
Summary: (aka 'Geralt 'the Babe Magnet' of Rivia', 'In the Eyes of a Child')Geralt's forced into a detour due to a lot of rain. He's not sure if it was a terrible thing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Characters, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Original Male Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Roach
Comments: 12
Kudos: 43





	If You Give A Child A Witcher

Geralt paid for his ale and waited as the barmaid rushed off to tend to a group of dwarven merchants. It had been a long night after an even longer day, and he, like the many other patrons, was glad to get out of the torrential rain. The room reeked of damp clothes and smoke, the room filled to bursting with noise and heat. It was welcome and suffocating in turns as the door swung open, admitting in yet another breath of freezing air before being stifled by the press of bodies and heavy damp clothes.

Shoulders jostled for room at the bar, yet there was always a margin of space surrounding him. The gap was as much a part of him as his dour face and wolf medallion, the common cloak of hate, distrust, and prejudice all mutants wore. But it was fine. He was used to it by now, even welcoming it as people made way, like drunken waves before a ship, allowing him to reach a discreet corner. It was partially hidden by the stairs with barely enough space for a table and a bench, but offered a clear view of the common room. He sat down on wood worn comfortable by the hundreds of asses planted in the very same spot and watched the world outside his little bubble of isolation.

He saw the barmaids rush in and out of the kitchen, the doors swinging so wildly they could pass through with nary a touch, a towering pile of plates and steins improbably balanced. He heard the local huntsmen complain of the poaching laws instilled by a Temerian noble. He felt a tug on his pants by the child who had been watching him for the past two days. 

“Hmm.”

Geralt stared down at the pudgy fingers clinging to his leather breeches.

With their brows furrowed in concentration, they rummaged in their pocket. Geralt watched as their chubby hand emerged grasping a flower, crumpled and dripping with an unknown fluid. It was a purple flower, one of the weeds growing outside of the inn, the stem mangled in their grip. The child smiled, satisfaction in every wrinkly line of their smile.

Geralt turned back to his ale. 

Another tug, this time with both hands. Geralt’s eyebrows furrowed deeper. He chanced a look down and saw big brown eyes under a mop of curly black hair. Their arms were raised towards him determinedly- a demand to be held.

“Please?”, they asked, very politely.

With a sigh, he picked up the toddler, carefully,  _ gently _ , grasping them around the torso. Immediately they transferred their free hand to his hair, tugging painfully on his scalp. Geralt winced. The little fingers, though clumsy as a baby bear, could rival the grip of a striga. But even then their hands and fingers were delicate, eclipsed in the hold of his large rough hands. Geralt could  _ crush _ them with a wrong move. Shifting them so that they sat in the crook of his arm, Geralt eased the toddler’s grasp off of his hair, his neck twisted in an uncomfortable manner.

“Hmmmf”, he frowned, fully concentrating on the wily trap of the toddler’s fingers. 

The toddler laughed, full belly chuckles, as they patted his face.

This… was not how children usually reacted to his face. They usually cried, or ran screaming… or threw rocks…. This was nice, he decided. Weird, and incredibly rare, but nice.

“For you”, they delicately placed the flower behind his ear, positioning until it sat just so.

“... Thank you….”, he gruffly murmured.

“I’m Cyprian”, the child stared at him with expectant eyes.

“Geralt”, he eventually answered. He couldn’t say why. It might have been a long forgotten reflex kicked in as he mused over the overheard drop in Cintran gold value. Might have been a whim. Geralt really didn’t know. A harried barmaid rushed past, slapping a stein in front of him. Geralt took a cautious sip, as he surveyed the room deep in thought. He would hopefully be able to get back on the road soon. The toddler grabbed the rim, pulling it close towards their face.

“No, no, no- that’s not for you”, Geralt said, nimbly detaching their grip without spilling either of his burdens.

“Why?” A tiny hand coiled deeper into his hair as the other hand rubbed at his stubble, entranced.

Geralt blinked at the enigma in his arms, fiddling at the chain around his neck, yanking at his hair in the process. Now, why indeed, did people not give ale to children? He mulled it over, sliding the stein farther away as a tiny hand tried for it again. Was it because children may drink too much? An insistent pull on his medallion chain yanked both his medallion and his attention towards the child. The toddler, Cyprian, gazed at the silver wolf emblazoned on the disk with large eyes.

“Woof!”

Geralt gently pulled the medallion away from delicate baby hands. “This is a wolf.”

Cyprian grabbed for the medallion with clumsy hands, blessedly releasing Geralt’s hair. 

“Woof!”

“Wolf”, Geralt enunciated, Cyprian staring at him with enchanted eyes.

“Wo-ol-f”, Cyprian said, brows furrowed in concentration as they emulated Geralt’s pronunciation.

Unbidden, a gentle smile unfurled across Geralt’s face. “Yes, wolf.” Cyprian grinned at him, a hand entangled yet again in Geralt’s hair. Geralt winced, the beginnings of a plan forming. Handing the medallion to Cyprian made them release Geralt’s hair. No baby hands in his hair meant no painful tugging. No tugging meant-

Geralt handed the toddler the wolf medallion, much to their delight as they giggled. They pulled the medallion close, and much to Geralt’s horrified confusion, began to chew on it  _ without letting go of his hair _ .

“Hey, Sera, isn’t that Cypr?”, Dima asked as the innkeeper passed their seat. Serafina internally groaned, exasperated. Again? That child would be the death of her. She’d told them time and time again, not to enter the common room during the dinner rush- especially during especially hectic times like this. She may very well have to leave them with Tilda during work hours. Serafina blinked, realizing she had missed what Dima had said.

“Say that again?”

Dima was staring at the corner table with a dazed expression. “The Witcher.”

“Yes? There’s a witcher here? He’s been here for a few da-”

“No”, Dima shook his head, glancing at her irritably, “with Cyprian.”

“Where?”, she looked up, fearful her baby would be dead before she could save them.

Her heart seized. 

Sitting in the corner booth nearly hidden by the stairs, sat the Butcher of Blaviken, a dark haired bundle nestled in the curve of his arm as they teethed on a round medallion. From the way her Cypr’s eyes were drifting, she could tell that her notoriously rambunctious baby was being lulled asleep- a feat near impossible. And yet, something about the Witcher, a monster of much renown, had her baby calm and soothed enough to sleep in the noisy common room. 

It must be some kind of magic, a spell he had casted to steal her baby, she thought as she rushed over to the man and her child. As she approached, the Witcher looked up, and she was taken aback. He looked so different from his usual stoic mein with her baby in his arms- confused and frantic and  _ human _ . 

“They won’t let go”, he said in a gruff murmur, eyes pleading for help. “As soon as I get one section loose, they grab two more.”

This close she could see one of the flowers her baby favoured this week tucked clumsily in the Witcher’s hair, the care in which he took to support her baby’s back. How Cypr’s hands were tightly coiled in his fair locks, the Witcher endlessly patient with the drool on his round wolf medallion and shoulder. It took everything she had not to laugh. Even then, she had to stifle a suspicious sounding cough at the soulful look in his golden eyes, tortured for the entertainment of a young child. Clearing her throat, she leaned close. 

“Allow me to try.” 

Sliding her hand under Cypr’s upper body, she shifted them until she could get at the Giordian knot even the Witcher couldn’t undo. With deft fingers, she quickly freed the Witcher’s thick white hair from her baby’s clutches. Serafina neatly slipped the sleepy toddler into her arms, the medallion smearing more drool on the Witcher’s clothes as it fell back, the Witcher watching with awed respect.

“...Mama?” Cypr blinked sleepily at her, large brown eyes glowing golden in the lamplight.

“Hi baby, it’s time to go to sleep.” Cypr blearily blinked at her before their brain made the connection. 

“No Mama…” Cypr frowned, lip trembling into a pout, gearing up to one of their infamous tantrums as they leant towards the Witcher with grabby, outstretched hands. “Stay w’ Gewald.”

“Cyprian, you’ve tormented the Witcher long enough. You’re going to bed”, she moved towards the stairs.

“Gewaldd! No goodnight!” Cypr looked at her, tears beading up, their arms crossed.

Cyprian would stay up all night crying because they never got to say good night to their newest friend, and then she would have to deal with his heart sick fever as well. Serafina sighed. Might as well let them get this out of his system. The Witcher would be gone tomorrow anyways.

She looked at Cyprian sternly. “One good night. Then you go to sleep.”

Cypr nodded as somberly as they could with sleep laden eyes.

Serafina held Cyprian closer to Geralt, allowing him to say good night as she had promised. She wasn’t prepared for her Cypr to kiss him on the temple with a noisy smack, and from the witcher’s expression, neither did he. Serafina trembled at the befuddled expression on the witcher’s face. With fear or laughter she couldn’t say, but when she saw his eyes soften, suspiciously misting over, she began to think. Lost in thought, neither noticed when Cyprian grabbed onto the witcher’s mountain white hair until she made to move away, the force bowing the witcher forward.

“Oh stars! Cyprian, let go of the man’s hair!”

Cyprian tightened his grip, the witcher imperceptibly wincing as a few hairs were pulled free. “No!”

“Cyprian!”, she said, betrayed, before turning to the witcher. “I’m truly so sorry, I don’t know what came over him-”

“Stay with Gewald”, Cyprian said, eyes beading up with tears as their face turned more red.

“You promised to go to sleep!”

“Yes! With Gewald”, her baby stubbornly held on, both hands entangled in the witcher’s hair.

“No, you’ll sleep in your bed”, disregarding propriety, she frantically tried to unravel her baby’s fists, to no avail.

“NO!” Sera saw more heads turn towards them.

“Sera!”, she looked up as the cook called her. 

“It would be no trouble for them to sleep here until you can get them to bed”, he said, 

Sera sagged in relief and defeat. “Truly?”

The witcher grunted, rough hands gently picking up her Cypr. They instantly quieted as he cradled them on his chest, their grip relaxing until they held but the very ends of his white hair. Serafina sighed.

“I’ll be back”, she promised, Cypr’s eyes already drifting shut.

When she returned, as she had expected, there was another pool of drool on the witcher, and her baby was deep asleep. With his help, she managed to swaddle Cypr in a blanket and clean up the drool. And that’s where they stayed the rest of the night. She checked on them of course, her and the others in the common room, all curious and cautious about the witcher’s intentions and Cypr’s attachment. But for all the concern, the witcher stayed true to his word.

The last of the guests had made their way to bed, and satisfied that the fire, gently glowing embers, would last long enough for the cook to feed them in the morning, Serafina decided to head to bed. With the fire down low, the common room was a wash in shadows, the corner where the witcher sat near void-like. Serafina cautiously made her way around the tables and chairs, straightening up one last time for the morning crowd.

At the end of her winding, circuitous path her child safely slept in the arms of the witcher.

_ ‘Safe’ _ , she frowned. ‘ _ When did the witcher become safe? _ ’

No movement could be seen amongst the shadows, save for the soft rise and fall of Cypr’s chest. At her soft foot fall, the wintery Witcher, still and unmoving as a statue, opened his eyes. Her breath caught, frozen in his golden gaze, eyes gleaming unnaturally in the dim light. A shiver skittered up her spine as the tales of the witchers resurfaced in her mind:

_ Predator, Monster, Butcher. _

She stuffed it down. Cpyr, for all that he’s two winters old, has a way with people. An  _ uncannily _ good judge of character, she would trust his assessment- however, the Butcher of Blaviken’s history was a large mark against him. Though, she mused, he did sit with a willful child for an entire night to let them sleep. It didn’t appear as if the witcher had moved once in the time since she left Cypr in his care.

“You didn’t give Cypr any ale, did you?”, she asked, mildly suspicious.

“No, Mistress”, a wan ghost of a smile flashed, “Not for lack of Cyprian trying.”

“Oh this child”, she sighed, gently receiving her sleeping bundle of exhaustive joy. “He’s too curious. He saw a puppet of a unicorn at the fair and spent the next week trying to find one. Nevermind that he was told that unicorns are attracted to virginal women, and unicorns themselves disappeared years ago.” 

The witcher watched her with that quiet watchfulness as they climbed the stairs, a shadow that towered over her even as he faded into the darkness. ‘ _ Why was she telling him this? _ ’, she suddenly wondered. As a witcher, he would know unicorns far better then she ever would. Serafina flushed with embarrassment. 

“Well, I’ve kept you long enough from your bed, Sir?”

The witcher blinked, seemingly surprised that she asked, before a small soft smile appeared. It was startling the difference that simple gesture wrought. The harsh planes warmed, turning winter cold into spring warmth. A boyish charm lingered in the twist of his lips, his eyes warm twin suns. It was no frigid mask of an unfeeling killer, nor of the monster in the tales. It was the face of a man who had hopes and fears. The face of a man who was bewildered by the warmth and friendship of a child. 

“Geralt of Rivia.”

“Good night, Sir Geralt”, she smiled, stopping outside her door.

He quietly bid her good night, before disappearing into his room. When she walked into the common room the next morning, the sun still submerged beneath the horizon, she found the witcher saddling his horse. It was chilly in the courtyard, the light from within the fireplace and the lamps glowing in a haze upon the fog lazily beading droplets on the witcher’s gleaming armour. 

“You’re leaving so soon? What about breakfast?”

“No thank you”, he pulled a saddle buckle tight, unsurprised at her presence, “I must be on my way.”

“Wait”, she rushed to the kitchen, hoping he heeded her call. The cook had just pulled out the first batch of loaves for the first meal, and with any luck, they would still have a bit of the cheese. Working quickly, she piled the food into her handkerchief, a faded purple with splotchy blue and red patches from where the dyes hadn’t mixed properly. Nearabout running, she burst into the courtyard where he was waiting, to her relief. She briskly strode up to him and thrusted the warm, still steaming bundle into his chest.

“I’m rather fond of this handkerchief. Make sure you return it”, she said mock seriously, good natured humor in every wrinkly line of her warm smile.

_ Come visit when you’re in the area. _

Geralt blinked, eyes widening,  _ softening _ , briefly, before he grunted and swung up into Roach’s saddle. As he rode off, the warm, beckoning lights of the inn vanished, turning it into another large indiscriminate mound in the fog. The bundle wrapped in a faded purple handkerchief was still clutched to his chest, filling him with a gentle warmth. But even as the bundle cooled in the chilly damp, the innkeeper and her son’s kindness kept Geralt warm.

**Author's Note:**

> He returns. And does so again, even without a favoured handkerchief. He may claim it’s because it’s hard to find a good inn that doesn’t discriminate against witchers, but it’s mostly because of the friends he’s unwittingly made.
> 
> ***  
> I hope ya'll enjoyed it! This was incomplete for the longest time.


End file.
